


The First Kiss

by silverthreads



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, First Kiss, Holidays, M/M, Mild Language, Thanksgiving, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverthreads/pseuds/silverthreads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day before Thanksgiving when Castiel shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Kiss

**The First Kiss**

_Thanksgiving is Dean’s favorite holiday.  After all, there’s pie._

It's three days before Thanksgiving when Sam looks up from the Irish mythology research he's doing and says carefully “Thanksgiving’s in three days.”

Dean looks over at him and frowns.  “So?”

“So,” Sam says, in a voice that suggests Dean is being particularly immature, “We should celebrate.  We haven’t visited Bobby in a while.  We could, you know…” he trails off and shrugs.  “If you want.”

“Right,” Dean scoffs.  “Okay, how about we _do our job_ and kill the selkie, and if you can do that in less than three days, Sammy, I will buy us a goddamn turkey.”

Sam grins a little and turns back to his computer.

***

A day later, two days before Thanksgiving, with silver-green blood spattering his favorite hoodie, a dull pounding in his head and sinuses full of seawater, Sam turns triumphantly to Dean, points to the half-woman thing lying on the beach beside him, and grins.  “Turkey,” he says, and wipes his knife off on his irretrievably dirty hoodie.

Dean scowls, but when they stop off the next day at the mega-grocery store forty miles out from Bobby’s, he loads up the cart with not just a turkey, but cranberries and pumpkin pie filling and flour and potatoes. 

When they knock on Bobby’s door they are greeted with “Can’t you use a phone, you idjits?”  Dean hurries inside, grinning and calling “Dibs on the shower, Sammy!” leaving Sam to lug the groceries in by himself.

“Were you boys planning for the apocalypse?” Bobby grumbles as Sam puts the things away in the relatively empty cupboards.  

“Not this time.  This is just Dean’s idea of Thanksgiving.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow; Sam raises one back.  They laugh, and Sam’s glad he suggested this.  It’ll do them all good, he thinks, to have a holiday that’s not spent in a dirty motel with monsters on the horizon.

It’s about this time on the day before Thanksgiving that there’s the soft rustle of wings Sam would recognize anywhere and Castiel flickers into existence.  Bobby drops the bag of flour, which luckily stays intact, and Sam backs up a couple steps.

“Dude,” Dean says, walking into the kitchen.  “Gotta warn us before you pull the apparating act.  You’re gonna give Sammy a heart attack one day.”  His sweatpants are pulled low over his hips and he’s wearing an old t-shirt that clings to his frame.  Castiel’s eyes flicker up and down his body and he swallows, his face reddening.  “My apologies,” he says after a long moment, “I simply wanted to check on you and make sure you were well.”

“Well, you came at the right time,” Dean says.  “Thanksgiving’s tomorrow.”

Castiel stares at him.

“You know,” Dean says, waving a hand in the air.  “Turkey, potatoes, pie.  Food.  You can stay if you want.  There’s room, right, Bobby?”

Bobby nods.  “I’ve got a couch,” he says.  “Any friend of these boys is welcome to stay.” 

Castiel seems uncertain for a moment, but at length he gives a terse nod.  “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Bobby says.  “Now if you boys don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sam says, looking distastefully at his dirt-streaked hands.  On his way out of the kitchen, he elbows Dean.  “Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean says affably. “I’m going to go work on my baby.  Want to see how it’s done?”

Castiel looks at him and then nods again.  “Yes.”

***

“So,” Dean says, as he bends over the hood of the Impala and points out the different parts of the engine to Castiel.  “Where you been, Cas?”

Castiel looks remorseful.  “I’ve been busy,” he says.  “I wanted to visit, but it’s… complicated.”

Dean gives a half-shrug, half-nod.  “For what it’s worth,” he says, “we missed you.”  He bends lower over the car and fiddles with something, as if this one sentence can dispel everything between them, all the words they’re leaving unsaid.  _I prayed to you.  You lied to me.  Where were you?_

Castiel watches him for a long moment, eyes bright, and then he says “I missed you too, Dean.”

So maybe it can.

***

Thanksgiving day dawns cold and clear.  By 10 AM, Bobby has assigned them all kitchen tasks, and they’re working industriously to make a proper thanksgiving dinner.  Dean grumbles, but a glance over at Sam’s smiling face quiets him.  Castiel is peeling potatoes which Dean cuts into squares, while Sam and Bobby tackle the turkey and stuffing.  Around 1 PM the turkey is slowly roasting in the oven and the stuffing is crisping, and they start in on the pies. 

“One apple, one pumpkin, one cherry,” Bobby says, and Dean pumps his fist silently.  “PIE,” he mouths at Castiel, and the angel’s mouth twitches.  Sam laughs, Dean winks at him, and Bobby looks over at the three of them and grins.  It’s been a long time since he’s seen either of the Winchesters looking this happy.

An hour later, Dean is brought back to the kitchen by the smell of burning.  He comes running and, as he takes in the smoke-filled kitchen, Castiel’s messy hair, and the mess of ingredients on the counter, his face falls.  “The pies?” he asks, and, without waiting for a response, he pulls open the oven door.  There sit three pies, perfect in every aspect except that they’re burnt to a crisp. 

Sam chooses this moment to make an entrance, only to double back out as soon as he catches sight of Dean’s devastated face to have an extended coughing fit.  “What happened?” he asks, barely bothering to conceal his guffaws. 

“I am afraid I did something wrong,” Castiel says, while Dean continues staring at the pies as if they’re another apocalypse.

Sam checks the temperature on the oven and chuckles.  “I’ll say.  You’re supposed to cook them at 350 degrees, not 530.”

Castiel looks at the recipe, then at the oven, then back at the recipe.  “I’m sorry,” he offers finally.  “I misread.”  He turns to Dean and bows his head, the picture of contrition, a little ruined by the soot on his cheek and the flour dashed across his nose.  “My deepest apologies, Dean.  I know how much pie means to you.”

Sam excuses himself to have another coughing fit.

Dean’s trying to be upset – really, he is, pie is the best thing in the world, especially on Thanksgiving, it’s an American tradition for God’s sake – but it’s hard to be mad at a face that is so honestly apologetic.  He glares at Cas, but the angel’s face crumples, and God, that is not an expression Dean ever wants to see on him again, and all Dean can think is how much he wants rub the flour off Castiel’s face with his thumb.  “It’s okay, Cas,” he says instead, feeling his voice choke around the lump in his throat.  “It’s fine.  It’s just pie.”  They’re staring at each other, and Cas looks so… _sad_ , so remorseful, and it’s not about pie, not really.  He leans forward, caught in Cas’ gaze, and then -

“Bobby and I are gonna go get some store-bought pie,” Sam shouts from the other room.  “Don’t let the turkey burn!”

Dean jumps and callss back “shut up!” in a resigned voice.  He is aware, suddenly, of how close he is standing to Castiel, and he backs up a few steps.  “It’s fine,” he says again.  “Shit happens.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel repeats.  “I’m sorry.  I just wanted…  I wanted to come back and apologize, and instead I just ruined your holiday.  I’m so sorry, Dean.”  He closes his eyes.  “I’ll go,” he says softly.  “Forgive me.”

“Cas!” Dean says, and then he’s closing the distance again and his lips are coming down on Castiel’s, and he doesn’t have time to stop and think about what the _fuck_ he’s doing, because Castiel is kissing him back, a desperate clash of tongues and teeth, warm and wet and it feels _good._   Castiel reaches up and tugs on his hair, and Dean can’t help but let out a little moan. 

Dean breaks away first, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds.  “I don’t want you to go,” he says, “Okay, Cas?  Fuck you.  It’s just pie.  You leave again and I’m going to kick your ass.  I prayed to you every night for months, Castiel, and you are not going to get away from me this easily.”

Castiel’s eyes are big and wide and disbelieving, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, so Dean stops him with another kiss.  This time, when he pulls away, Castiel is smiling a real smile, and it almost makes Dean’s heart stop.  He reaches out and dusts the flour off Castiel’s nose.  “You look like an idiot,” he says, and he thinks Castiel understands what he means, because he reaches down and wraps his hand around Dean’s, warm and solid and comfortable.

_Yeah.  Thanksgiving is Dean’s favorite holiday.  Maybe not just because of the pie._

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest apologies for any OOC or weird timelines. I'm not actually done with the show yet, but I wanted to write this in time for Thanksgiving, and next week's going to be a busy one.


End file.
